


The Symptoms of Grief

by sarcatholic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Cigarettes, Developing Relationship, Doctor John Watson, Gen, Grief/Mourning, If you want him to be (I do), Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John Watson is Not Gay but he IS Bi, M/M, Medical Examination, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Violence, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Pre-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, References to Drugs, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Parents, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are Working Things Out, Sickfic, The Final Problem does not exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27527881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcatholic/pseuds/sarcatholic
Summary: After "The Lying Detective," John has moved back in with Sherlock, now with Rosie. Together, they experience the shattering impact of Mary's death on their lives and try to build something from the rubble.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 71





	The Symptoms of Grief

They say that grief will cause a broken heart. But it also breaks the body.

_From the crack in the bedroom door, Sherlock watches John pull the sheets over his head and hunch into the foetal position._

The first effect is impaired cognition. Everything from making arrangements to making a right-hand turn requires significant intellectual effort. The worst of it, causing a lack of coordination and an inability to generate or process complex information, begins to dissipate after two weeks. But the effects linger.

_Sherlock jolts awake, disoriented, the baby wails pounding in his head._

_“Sherlock, I’m so sorry —”_

_His eyes focus on John standing over him, bouncing Rosie on his shoulder. Sherlock lifts his face from his sleep-drool on the sofa arm._

_“I just — I can’t, I’m so tired, can you —”_

_“Of course —” Sherlock pulls himself to standing and sweeps Rosie into his arms. “Go rest.”_

Where grief doesn’t suppress the appetite, nausea overrides it.

_“Toast, John?”_

_“Nah. I’m fine.”_

_“With jam, maybe?”_

_“N—no.”_

_“Tea, at least?”_

_“Yeah, all right.”_

Because of the triggering event, cortisol builds up in the body. The stress is exacerbated by the disturbed sleep, the malnutrition, and a lack of motivation to move the body, which together continue to magnify the effects of grief on the body.

_Sherlock pops open the medicine cabinet, pries the lid off the paracetamol, and shakes two long white pills into his palm. For a moment he can’t tell if his hand is trembling, or if his vision is blurred by the throbbing in his head._

Grief amplifies limbic system cravings for dopamine —

_John boxes all the plastic-capped needles scattered around the kitchen as Sherlock leans out the window, dragging deeply on a cigarette._

— and in some cases, it can trigger interference with the caudate and cingulate nuclei, generating obsessive-compulsive impulses.

_“Are you okay, John?”_

_“What? Yeah. Fine. Just, ahh, checking on Rosie.”_

_“You checked on her five minutes ago. I heard you.”_

_“I know.”_

The shock and combined stressors of grief weaken the immune system.

_“How. Fucking. Many times. Can.” John exhales heavily. “A person get the flu. In a month.”_

_Sherlock raises his sweat-glossed face from the other side of the bed. “I don’t know. You’re the medical professional here.”_

Grief is, in other words, a trauma. The body broken by grief does not heal so much as adapt: working around the pain, sometimes muscling through. The scar tissue becomes part of the body, functional and sometimes too-familiar, changing but never going away. It remains in the body, honouring the body that was lost.

*

John sets down two mugs of steaming tea on the living room table, ceramic _chunk_ ing against wood. Sherlock looks up from his laptop. The morning light is especially kind to his face today, brightening his horizon-blue eyes and softening out some of the green of his bruise. Sherlock puts the mug to his healing lips and sips.

“Doing all right today?” John asks.

“Doing? Doing fine.” He stares off over his mug at the wallpaper. “Also, feeling fine.”

His brows knit together as if he’s worried himself, and John’s heart rises up his throat to see the skin fold awkwardly around his stitches.

“Hey, are you putting your ointment on those stitches like I told you to?” John leans across the table. “It looks like you’re getting infected.”

Sherlock takes his eyes from the wallpaper and looks up, as if trying to see if there is medicated gel on his forehead. “Ehrm … I definitely did sometime …”

“You’re really bad at taking care of yourself, you know that? Where did you leave it?”

“Bathroom, medicine cabinet, top shelf, on the right, behind the alcohol prep pads.”

“Right.” John pushes himself to his feet. “I can’t believe you forgot to use it.”

He wanders off down the hall, muttering about tall people and top shelves. Sherlock breathes the steam off the tea, feels the rough bottom edge of the ceramic, and watches the light on the bubbles clustered around the rim. John returns, tube of ointment in one hand and examination glove on the other. He unscrews the cap and squeezes a bit of gel onto his fingertip.

“Sherlock, look —” John coughs and gently massages the gel between the stitches. “Sorry, just — I’m really sorry I — hit you —”

“John, I said I forgive you. You’re grieving. Your decision-making capacities are impaired, your stress levels are elevated, and you have a history of PTSD that enacts itself as violence. I understand.”

“That does not make it okay.”

“I didn’t say it did. I said it makes it understandable.”

“No, Sherlock, it’s not understandable because you don’t know —” his breath caught “— my father used to beat us — he’d get drunk, and then he’d take it all out on me and Harry —”

Sherlock sets his mug down as John continues to work at his stitches. “John, it’s just as much my fault. Not to brag, but I’m quite a bit larger than you are and trained in more martial arts. I am not a child. I … might have let you.”

“You were high out of your mind.”

Sherlock squints his eyes and gives a doubtful hum.

“No, don’t start with that —”

The alarm on John’s phone starts beeping. For a moment, their eyes remain locked. Then John swallows hard and breaks the eye contact.

“Ehrm. Time for your methadone.”

“Yes.”

John snaps the glove off and fumbles for the pill organizer, tucked amid the jar of pens, the deconstructed Rubik’s cube, and now a slightly melted set of plastic keys on the shelf next to the table. He drops one pill into Sherlock’s open hand and watches as his friend throws it into his mouth, shakes his head, and swallows it dry.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“You’re too good at that.”

“I’ve never been addicted to prescription medication, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, all right.” John ducks his head behind his raised palm. “May I examine you now?”

Sherlock spreads his arms wide, mug still in hand. “ _Ecce homo_.”

“Yeah, very funny.” John pulls his doctor’s bag onto the table, but shares his smirk. “Okay, let me see your arms.”

Sherlock shakes back the sleeves of his silky blue dressing gown, exposing his forearms and the faint green smudges along his veins.

“Thank you. Shirt up, if you don’t mind, please.”

Sherlock half-raises his grey tee to allow John to feel around the bruises on his abdomen. John keeps his head down as he gently palmed his flesh, allowing Sherlock to stare over him.

“So the army doctor was abused as a child. That goes some way to explaining your reaction to Ajay’s story.”

“I wasn’t a child. Dad got laid off when I was in my last year of lower school, he took to drinking and then he took it out on me and Harry — mostly Harry because, you know, she was flaming — but I was better at — sorry, sorry —” he jerks his hand away when Sherlock flinches. “Does it hurt?”

Sherlock waves the question away. “What were you better at?”

John presses his lips together and puts on his stethoscope. “I was better at … keeping out of the way.”

Sherlock’s eyes track John closely as he listens to his heart and lungs and measures his blood pressure.

John unplugs the stethoscope from his ears and sets it on the table. “Heart rate’s a bit more elevated than it should be sitting down,” he announces, tapping the table. “Bruising sure seems to be taking its time healing, but given the circumstances …” He takes a quick breath. “Christ, if I could do this to my own best friend, I don’t know — Rosie —”

“John.” Sherlock lays a palm over John’s spasming fist. “You’re going to therapy. You’re doing the right thing, unlike your father. It’s not okay now, but it will be.”

John’s hand relaxes a bit underneath Sherlock’s. He slowly releases his breath.

Sherlock smirks. “Even I’m going to therapy, actually.”

John looks up in surprise, but covers it with a shake of his head and silent laugh through his nose. “Maybe we need couples’ therapy.”

Sherlock raises both eyebrows at him and inclines his head.

“I’m kidding, Sherlock, relax.” John starts stuffing his stethoscope and blood-pressure cuff back into his bag.

Sherlock tents his fingers. “I’ve been reliably informed that it’s not just for spouses and sexual partners, you know.”

John looks up. “Yeah?”

Sherlock nods once.

“Hmh.” John zips the bag and settles back in his chair. “Maybe.” He runs his hands through his hair, gently sighing. “Maybe.”


End file.
